


Jeeves and the Three O'Clock Wager

by JaneTurenne



Category: Jeeves - Wodehouse
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-01
Updated: 2009-12-01
Packaged: 2017-10-04 01:21:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneTurenne/pseuds/JaneTurenne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An interesting Notion interrupts Bertie at his writing desk.  Fluff ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jeeves and the Three O'Clock Wager

"I say!" I I-sayed, for the notion that had just popped into the Wooster brain was as deserving of I-saying as any I ever ran across. "I say!" I I-sayed again, just for good measure.

It was three in the afternoon, as good a time for writing as any in the day, what with the warm sleepiness of after-lunch beginning to wear off and the nippy toothsomeness of teatime just 'round the bend. I was, consequently, sitting at my writing desk, scribbling away at the beginning of a story. Perhaps this is your first taste of the literary products of one Bertram Wooster, though as I'm writing this purely for my own satisfaction, I can't see how that would be. Be that as it may, I ought to explain that there's a sort of pattern I go about, in my writing, and one of the first steps, once I've set the scene, and all, is to introduce Jeeves. In fact, I'm having quite the battle with my own pen right this minute, as it seems to think that the time for Jeeves-introducing is come again. I don't suppose it'll leave me alone until I've done _something_ in that vein. Very well, then. Jeeves is my valet. He is also the most perfect specimen of the human species ever yet to walk this earth.

It should be mentioned that I don't generally put quite so fine a point on it in my published tales. At times like that I'm forced to stick to phrases like "magnificent brain" and "prince among valets." Just between you and me, however, _that_ is how it is. The "perfect specimen" thingummy, I mean.

So, as I've said, I had come to the point in my tale-- not this one here, the other one I was writing at that three in the afternoon I mentioned back in paragraph two-- for singing the praises of Jeeves. And it occurred to me to wonder, as I was doing so, what could possibly be keeping a man like that in the position of valet to a man like me. I mean to say, while the Woosters _were_ at Agincourt, and all, that's hardly enough to tie one of the great minds of the century to a bungler like yours truly. No, there was only one thing I'd ever heard of that could bind two such unlikely partners as Jeeves and me, and that was...

I stopped. I blinked. I I-sayed. In fact, as I think I've mentioned already, I I-sayed no less than twice. For the idea that had pirouetted merrily across my mind was, "The only force strong enough to be keeping Jeeves as my valet is love."

As the full ramifications, if ramifications is the word I want, of my idea began to sink in, I gave a thoughtful gnaw at the old lower lip. There it was, this idea of mine, seeming not at all inclined to vanish like Sir Roderick Glossop when informed of the impending arrival of a basket-full of kittens. No, there it was, and here was I, and the question was, was it true? And the other question was, what was I going to do about it?

My usual procedure when in a sticky spot is simple: ask Jeeves. For reasons which must be obvious (unless you happen to be Barmy Fotheringay-Phipps, in which case, Barmy, old chap, I'm awfully impressed you've managed to read this far; hadn't you better go have a bit of a lie-down, after working so hard?), that was not an option in this particular case. Fortunately, however, Jeeves's is not the only brain at Berkley Mansions capable of dreaming up the odd wheeze. Indeed, Bertram W. Wooster is quite well known as a schemer himself, among those of his own circle, if I do say so myself. While I am not so packed full of fish as a certain gentleman's personal gentleman, I'd say that a goodly helping of Anatole's _sole Bretonne avec gratin du fenouil_ is enough to put ideas into the head of even the dullest sop, and, last time I was at Brinkley, I packed in three such helpings. It is thus not surprising that I managed, with very little trouble, to come up with a corker of a plan for finding out whether Jeeves' feelings for the young master did indeed run deeper than his stoic exterior would give a man reason to suppose.

Perhaps I haven't yet made this clear, but I very much hoped that they did. I mean to say, what does a little question like the cove-ness of a cove matter when the cove in question is Jeeves? To tell the truth, I'd been positively potty about the man from time immemorial, as the poets would say, but I'd never before had any reason to suspect that he might feel a certain fluttering between the ribs when gazing in my direction. I'd been quite contented with things the way they were, the tried-and-true master and man routine. That is to say, I hated it, but it was still better than the idea of spouting off declarations of undying love which would no doubt have sent Jeeves fleeing for the hills, vowing to clap eyes on his addled ex-employer nevermore. I mean, it was even odds whether he'd even hang around long enough for me to jot down a letter of reference before legging it as fast as he could go. And given the length of his legs, and the way he seems to appear instantly the moment I need him, as fast as he could go would no doubt have had him in deepest darkest Persia, or somewhere, before I could blink.

Except now it had occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't. Flee, that is. Not if I went about my declaration-ing carefully enough, anyway. Just as I'd screwed my courage to the sticking point-- that's one of Jeeves's, and a dashed handy little phrase-- he did that appearing thing I've just been mentioning and, well, appeared.

"Ah, Jeeves," I said, after only a bit of a start, "Just the man I wanted to see."

"Indeed, sir?" he mentioned, in a voice which may or may not have merited that question mark. "How may I be of service?"

I had already determined that, if I was going to pull off this little scheme of mine, it would require the outward semblance of utter confidence. It was, therefore, with an air of devil-may-care insouciance that I rose from my chair and stood before him. It would have been handy at this point, I think, to have been able to tower over him a bit, to make the message stick, but, Jeeves being something of a colossus, that was a difficult trick to pull off. I settled for puffing out my shoulders and clasping my hands behind my back.

"Jeeves," I said, "I've just been thinking."

"Indeed, sir?" he said again, in a voice which definitely did merit the question mark this time.

"Ye-es. Jeeves, d'you know that mask of absolute deportment and composure you always keep pulled over the old mug?" I asked, in as casual a tone as I could manage.

One of his eyebrows angled up by no more than two or three degrees. "I believe I understand to what you are referring, yes, sir. I do endeavour to maintain a professional demeanour whenever possible, sir."

"Quite, Jeeves, quite. And well do you succeed, let me tell you!"

"Thank you, sir."

"No more than the truth, Jeeves. But what I've been wondering is, whether there might not be _something_ I could say that could crack that impenetrable façade, and whether or not you might like to have a little wager with me to that effect."

"A wager, sir?"

"A bet, Jeeves. A bit of a flutter, just to keep things interesting."

"Yes, sir, the meaning of the word had not escaped me. I was simply unsure what, specifically, would be the terms of the wager you suggest."

"Oh. Well, I'm willing to bet that I can, by words alone, provoke you into dropping that stuf... er... into reacting more strongly, and more visibly, than is your habit. If I can, then you owe me some little favor, and if I can't, then I'll perform some little service for you. I think you know I'd never ask for anything much-- Code of the Woosters, and all, not the sort of chap to take advantage of such a situation-- and I trust you not to demand that I sign the old homestead away to you, or that I marry some frightful beazel of your selection, or something equally dramatic. I would, however, consider tossing that new pair of cuff-links that you eyed with such distaste the other day."

Jeeves blinked a blink which, in any other man, would have been a shudder. "If you'll pardon me saying so, sir, I do not believe that silver and carmine amphibians are a suitable adornment for a gentleman of taste."

"Oh, come now, Jeeves. As birthday gifts from Gussie go, newt-shaped cuff-links are well above par. _I_ think they're rather spiffy. But the point of it is, I'm offering you a chance to have them melted down for scrap, and yet you seem not to be jumping at it."

Jeeves considered for a moment. "All I need do, sir, is fail to betray any strong emotion in response to a statement of yours, and you will permit me to dispose of the... items in question?"

"Bravo, Jeeves, you've hit it on the head!" I proclaimed. "And if you do happen to slip up, you've got to indulge some trifling little whim of mine. Is is a bargain?"

"Very well, sir," he said, and straightened slightly (though how there was room for improvement to his already flawless posture, I'm not entirely sure), preparing himself for the blow.

"Right ho!" I began, and then faltered for a moment. Suppose I was making a terrible mistake? Suppose I was wrong? Suppose I _was_ condemning myself to that dull, cold, Jeevesless existence I so feared?

'Pull yourself together, Wooster,' I told myself. 'Remember, confidence is key.' Accordingly, I knitted my fingers together and stretched them out in front of me, bouncing from my heels to my toes, generally giving off the air of a man without the slightest worry in the world. To finish off the picture, I pasted a charming grin onto the old Wooster map, and dived into it headlong.

"Jeeves," I said, attempting to infect... no, infect's not right... intone... infuse! "Jeeves," I said, attempting to infuse as much certainty as possible into my voice, "how long have you been in love with me?"

A chappie who chanced to wander into _chez_ Wooster off the street-- I'm not saying it's likely, mind, but these sorts of things do happen to a man every now and then-- with no previous knowledge of that paragon of valets, R. Jeeves, would have said my little wager was a bust for Bertram. It's not that Jeeves burst into frantic sobs, or anything, which is a notion so terrifying that I hardly managed to write it down just then. But his mouth dipped open for a moment before he hastily resealed it into the usual crease. He took the tiniest step backwards, and the rise in his eyebrows definitely exceeded the regulation sixteenth of an inch. For a normal man, this would be the reaction to a crisis on the order of having the hiccups. For Jeeves, it was the reaction to an emotional impact as forceful as a speeding express train.

It would not be too much to say that my heart soared within me at this uncharacteristic lapse of Jeeves's. I had a near thing of it avoiding the urge to dance a bit of a jig, but I managed to avoid even so much as a face-splitting grin. I suppose my eyes must have sparkled something awful, but one can't help the eyes, can one? Windows to the soul, after all.

"I believe that marks a rare victory for the Wooster side, eh Jeeves?" I said, in a chummy sort of way.

"It would appear so, sir," he replied, still looking rather dazed.

"Right, then," I said, rubbing my hands together. "About that forfeit of mine." I rocked back and forth on my feet again, h. to t. to h. "Now, if you'd just stand still for a moment."

"Sir?" he asked, more dazed than ever.

"That's what I'd like as my forfeit, Jeeves. For you to plant your feet where they are, and not move them for fifteen... make it twenty... no, make it thirty seconds. I believe you'll admit that's not too heavy a burden to bear?"

"Certainly not, sir," he said, reaching into his waistcoat pocket and withdrawing his pocketwatch, a fine old instrument polished up to a bright shine. Although he had no idea why I wanted it, the idea of having some definite task to perform seemed to have nudged Jeeves back to his normal Jeeves-ly state. Or near it, anyway. There was still, however, something overly stiff in his pose, the posture of a man waiting for the other shoe to drop, and something automatic in his movements, which was hardly surprising given the personal nature of the question which he had managed, I noticed, not to answer. "When would you like me to begin, sir?"

I shuffled impatiently. "You needn't time it, Jeeves. I only meant the time to be approximate."

"Very good, sir."

"I would be much obliged if you would put your watch back in your pocket, Jeeves."

"Certainly, sir."

"Right." A moment passed in silence. "Oh! Erm... I've got to tell you when to start, haven't I?"

"I believe it would be advisable, sir."

"Alright, then, Jeeves, have at it."

"Yes, sir."

I wasted the first two seconds. The fact of it is that courage, no matter how screwed to the sticking point, does tend at such moments to come unstuck. Or unscrewed. Possibly both.

By second number three, however, I had resolved to cease this blithering. I stepped forward, so that a scant few inches separated Jeeves and me, levered myself up on my tiptoes, and planted a kiss squarely on Jeeves' right cheek.

I chanced a glance at him afterward. He didn't seem to be flushing with inexpressible rage, though his eyes were rather rounder than usual. Encouraged, or at any rate not _discouraged_, by these indications, I moved my head a bit, and placed another kiss just on the left corner of his mouth.

Again I stopped to look at him. He seemed unable or unwilling to meet my eyes, but the tiniest hint of something that might have been approaching to a blush had crept along his cheekbones. I decided to chance it. Closing my eyes, I pressed my lips very softly against his.

Possibly, my dear fictional reader, you've been in love. Possibly you know what it feels like to kiss the beloved object for the first time, the way it seems like every muscle in the body has been transmogrified into the strings of some bally odd instrument and they've all been strummed at once-- shaky, and jangly, and discordant, and trembly, and yet, overall, bloody brilliant. This was something like that.

"Jeeves," I said, as I lowered myself back to my feet and untwined my arms from around his neck, "that was, overall, bloody brilliant."

He didn't say anything. Of all the not-saying-anything that I've ever witnessed in my time, this was undoubtedly the loudest. He screamed silence, shouted nothingness, and yelped the absence of sound.

It occurred to me, around this time, that Jeeves' reaction to my kiss had not been quite so wholeheartedly enthusiastic as I might have dreamed of. I mean, he hadn't flinched away, or anything, but he also hadn't thrown his arms about me and clasped me close and whispered words of tender passion in my ears. I had considered the kiss a success on account of the fact that his lips had sort of bended and melted into mine in a truly incredible way, but what if that was just how Jeeves's lips felt, even when held in a position of resolute disapproval? What if the lack of flinching was simply the result of shock, or politeness? These were the sort of dire imaginings that darted to and fro across my mind as I waited for Jeeves to speak, and, the longer he didn't, the to-er and fro-er they darted. I wanted desperately to catch his eye, but, somehow, I didn't dare try.

"Oh," I said at last, in a smallish sort of voice. I stepped back a few paces and stared at my shoes, whence every iota of my insides seemed to have sunk, but I also straightened my spine and stuck out my chin, ready to face the music like a man and a Wooster. If I was about to lose Jeeves, I could at least console myself with the thought that I had borne the loss upright. It was a bit like consoling oneself for the loss of a palace by reminding oneself that one still possessed a spoon, but, even so, one wouldn't like to lose the spoon as well, if one could help it.

"Very well, then, Jeeves," I mumbled. "I suppose there's no chance I might convince you to forgive me for my abominable behavior, but if you'll at least wait a few minutes before fleeing to deepest darkest Persia, I promise to write you the gushingest letter of reference you've ever clapped eyes on, including an explanation of the fact that you're the finest valet London's ever seen, and that I'm only parting with you due to my own inexpressible stupidity." By then I had become rather sniffly, and thought it best I say no more. I turned to slink away. And then an idea came to me. "Unless, perhaps, you might consider staying, if I gave you my solemn word, as a preux chevalier, that positively nothing of the kind will ever be spoken of, done, or contemplated by Bertram Wooster so long as he lives? That is to say, so long as I live?"

I finally managed a glance in his direction. He was staring into the middle distance with the oddest look on his face. As I watched, he lifted his hand, very slowly, and brought three of his fingers to rest against his lips. After a moment more of that dreadful silence, he turned his head, _finally_, to look at me.

He was absolutely glowing. Suddenly, so was I.

"Oh," I said again, in quite a different voice. "Well. You might have said so before, Jeeves."

"Sir," he said quietly, and never have I been so glad to hear his voice intoning that familiar syllable. It took only one stride for him to close the gap my few shuffling steps had placed between us. "I believe I _will_ be requiring a promise from you if I am to continue in my present capacity, but in quite the opposite vein from the one which you suggest." His hands on my waist were distracting, but wonderful. "I would much rather have your word that, from henceforth, such expressions of affection will be exchanged between us as frequently as practicably possible, so long as we both shall live." Whereupon he pulled me into a kiss, with a gusto which more than made up for his earlier stillness.

"Jeeves," I sighed happily against him, hugging him close with all my might and main, "you have my word. And my heart. And every other part of me that might happen to hold any interest."

"_Every_ other part, sir?" his lips were only a fraction of an inch away from my ear, and one of his hands had managed, I knew not how, to slip beneath my shirt and rest against the curve of my spine. Either one of those conditions on its own would have been enough to cause a lesser man to press up into him and give a sort of satisfied (and yet very far from satisfied) wriggle. I am not ashamed to admit that, between the both of them, I did just that.

He made a noise then, which would have been the worst parts of a groan and a hiss coming from anyone else, but which, from Jeeves's lips, seemed the very music of the spheres. It was quickly becoming obvious in what direction my priorities ought to lie. Sliding my hands down, I grasped him by the lapels and began to walk, backwards, in the direction of the bedroom. He permitted himself to be tugged.

"I don't suppose you'd care for another wager, Jeeves?" I asked, pushing his jacket from his shoulders and beginning on the buttons of his waistcoat.

"What did you have in mind, sir?" he replied, draping my tie neatly over the door handle as we stumbled our way inside.

"I am willing to bet," I said, tangling my fingers in his hair, "that, before the next time either of us leaves the flat, I'll have convinced you to call me Bertie."


End file.
